


i will remember you

by obsessivereader



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky never gets all his memories back, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Light Angst, Loki is a convenient plot device, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Temporary Amnesia, ignores Captain America: Civil War, steve has amnesia, the avengers are one big happy family, trigger words what trigger words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7620946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivereader/pseuds/obsessivereader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is James now, and it takes Steve losing his memory to bring them back together</p>
<p>He stares at the man, curious and wondering. “Who are you?” <br/>“James Barnes.” <br/>The man’s voice, and the way he shapes his consonants—soft and smooth and just a touch foreign—is almost, but not quite, familiar. <br/>“Are we friends too?” he asks.<br/>“Yeah.”<br/>Huh. The way his body’s responding to James doesn’t seem very friend-like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/gifts).



> Thanks to dirtybinary ([chennaa](http://http://chennaa.tumblr.com/)) for all the moral support, and putting up with months of whining and the beta read!

His eyelids drift open and he blinks up at the ceiling, thoughts hazy with pain. He _hurts._ Why does he hurt? He can’t— Why can’t he _remember?_

He looks around, wincing as his head throbs at the movement. He's in some kind of hospital room, hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV line. There's a black man in jeans and a t-shirt sleeping in an expensive-looking reclining chair by the bed. He doesn’t recognize the man and has no idea why he’d be keeping vigil at his bedside. Caution keeps him from making a sound.

In the warm glow of the recessed lights, the room’s furniture and fittings have the kind of understated luxury only extreme wealth can buy, and all the medical equipment looks state-of-the art. Looking out the long stretch of windows, he sees nothing but high-rise buildings, windows all aglow in the night. Based on the view, and the distant sounds of traffic, he’s at least fifty to sixty floors above street level.

The room door opens and a petite woman with red hair walks in. “You’re up,” she says in a husky voice. Her eyes are warm and full of relief, the eyes of a friend. He doesn’t recognize her either.

The man wakes and blinks a few times before rubbing at his eyes. “Hey, man,” he says, warm and friendly. He sits up in the chair and yawns and stretches, movements expansive and unselfconscious. “You had us worried there.” His smile is wide and sincere and there’s a noticeable gap between his front teeth.

The woman is watching him with a worried frown. “Steve? Are you okay?”

He sits up. He doesn’t like how vulnerable he feels, lying down in the bed with two strangers in the room. The room spins alarmingly and his head begins to pound. He squints, trying to bring the woman into focus. “Who are you?” he says. “Who’s Steve? Where am I?”

The man and woman exchange worried looks.

“You’re Steve Rogers,” the woman says, “I’m Natasha Romanoff, and that”—she points at the man—“is Sam Wilson. We’re your friends.”

“Why can’t I remember anything?”

“You were injured in a fight and you’re now on the medical floor in Avengers Towers.” Her expression is open and placating, but the slight shift in her stance indicates battle readiness. He gets the impression that there’s a steel-trap mind coupled with terrifying competence lurking behind her friendly exterior.

The fight would explain the pain and the memory loss, but something’s still not adding up. Avengers Tower is clearly not a hospital; he’s too high up, it’s too quiet and the room wouldn’t look out of place in a five-star hotel. Why would a privately owned building have medical facilities and why is he being treated in it? He’s not hanging around to find out. He starts stripping off the wires and patches attached to his body. The heart monitor immediately starts beeping an alarm.

The black man, _Sam,_ he reminds himself, jumps up and holds out his arms. “Whoa, whoa, Steve. Where’re you going?”

Steve (Steve?) ignores him. He throws back his blanket and, _oh thank god_ , he’s wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants instead of a hospital gown. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, his bare feet sinking into the thick pile of the carpet. The pounding in his head worsens. He grits his teeth at the pain.

Running footsteps approach the room. Natasha intercepts the person and sends them away. A few seconds later, the alarm shuts off. When Sam tries to get closer, Steve glares at him until he steps back, palms up.

“Okay, man,” Sam says, “it’s cool, I won’t get in your way.” He joins Natasha in the doorway.

Steve can only make out bits and pieces of their whispered conversation. Something about Loki. The Norse god...? Maybe he’d heard that wrong. He pulls out the IV line at his wrist. The pain in his head has gotten so bad that his eyes have started to water. Natasha says something about a James and then the phrase ‘help contain the situation’. Sam looks dubious but pulls out his phone and leaves the room.

He does not like the phrase ‘contain the situation’ since he’s probably the situation that needs containing. The door opens and Sam walks back in.

“Incoming,” he says.

“I told you,” Natasha says, sounding smug.

Sam rolls his eyes.

“I'm going to talk to Jane,” she says. She looks over at him, concern in her green eyes. “Please don’t go, Steve. You’re among friends here.” The smile she gives him before she leaves is small and careful.

He’s not sure what to make of her. Sam’s unguarded reaction when he’d woken up and seen Steve seemed genuine, but Natasha’s a lot harder to read. He’s pretty sure she’s telling the truth, but he gets the feeling that people only see what she allows them to.

A tall man walks in soon after Natasha leaves, moving with the coiled grace of a trained fighter. He’s dressed all in black, down to the leather gloves covering his hands. His dark brown hair is close-cropped, throwing his startlingly clear grey eyes into stark relief. There’s a moment of turmoil in his head when their eyes meet, like his mind perceiving the ripples left in the wake of a disturbance that’s long since passed out of sight.

He stares at the man, curious and wondering. “Who are you?”

“James Barnes.”

The man’s voice, and the way he shapes his consonants—soft and smooth and just a touch foreign—is almost, but not quite, familiar.

“Are we friends too?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Huh. The way his body’s responding to James doesn’t seem very friend-like.

James gives him a once-over, noting the way he’s leaning against the bed for support. “What’re you doing, Steve?” he says. “You can hardly stand up straight. Why don’t you get back in the bed?”

Steve straightens up to his full height—pressing his lips together to hold back a whimper of pain—then locks his knees so he doesn’t fall over.

James shakes his head. “What are you… five?”

“Hey—”

“You don’t know who you are, or where you are. You have no money and”—James tilts his head in the direction of the window—“it’s the middle of the night. Where’re you gonna go?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m sure you can,” James says, “but how about you figure it out tomorrow. Stay here for tonight. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He feels pinned to the spot by the look in James’s eyes. He has no reason whatsoever to trust James, and yet... “Ok,” he says, “but only for tonight.” Now he just has to get back into bed without embarrassing himself.

“Need a little help?”

There’s a definite hint of sarcasm in James’s tone, but he doesn’t answer, too busy trying to keep his head from breaking open. He’s lost all feeling in his legs and can barely move his arms. Yeah... he’s got this.

He tries to hitch himself back onto the mattress but his arms give out. James catches his elbow before his knees even start to bend. How did he—? Wasn’t he on the other side of the room?

“Idiot.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly.

James holds his arm steady while he climbs back onto the bed. Does it have to be so fucking _high_. At least James doesn’t coddle him, just provides the bare minimum of help and lets him muddle through. He’s broken out in a cold sweat by the time he’s back in the bed, and his whole body is screaming in pain, but hey, his pride’s mostly intact.

“Get some sleep, man,” Sam says. “You’ll get your answers in the morning.”

His head snaps round at the sound of Sam’s voice. He’d been so focused on James that he’d forgotten Sam was still in the room. His gut tells him he can trust Sam, but he’s not sure he can sleep with him in the room... one too many variables to worry about.

Sam gives him an understanding smile. “I’m gonna go too,” he says, and points an admonishing finger at him. “You better be here in the morning.” He gives James a commiserating look and a quiet “Good luck, man,” before walking off.

James takes a seat in the recently vacated chair. “Sleep, Steve,” he says softly. “I’ll keep watch.”

He wants to argue. He really does. But his body is shutting down and James is keeping watch. He’ll be okay, he can rest… he’s safe…

___

The first thing Steve sees on waking is James. He’s reading a book and has his feet propped up on the bed. In the grey light of early morning, his cheeks look hollowed and there are shadows under his eyes. Even looking worn and disheveled from spending a night in the chair, James is still far more attractive than is good for his peace of mind.

James turns a page with a gloved hand. “Morning,” he says, in a voice rough from disuse.

“You didn’t sleep?” Steve asks. He stretches, working out the kinks in his body. He blinks in surprise. All his aches are gone.

James looks up at him. “Told you I’d keep watch.”

“You should’ve slept. You look tired.”

There’s a flash of amusement in James’s eyes. “And risk you running off in the night?”

“Hey, I said I’d stay put.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” James nods towards the bathroom. “There’s stuff in there if you want to wash up.”

Washing up sounds good. Plus he’ll finally get to see what he looks like. All he knows is that he’s built like a tank. He gets out of bed slowly and teeters a little on his first step. He waves James off when James pulls his legs off the bed and starts to stand up. “I’ve got it,” he says.

“Sure you do.” But James settles back down and keeps a watchful eye on him as he heads for the bathroom.

He shuts the bathroom door and stares at the stranger in the mirror.

Objectively, he's gotta admit he's a pretty good-looking guy. Blond, blue eyes, lean face, symmetrical features. The nose though... it’s definitely been busted up one time too many. His shoulders are broad and his waist narrow, and there are muscles bulging everywhere.

He looks down at himself. One last thing to check. Ignoring the heat in his cheeks, he pulls down his sweatpants and takes a look.

So… okay.

He’s built to scale.

Feeling sheepish, but also—he has to admit—gratified, he shuffles over to the toilet to take a leak.

Natasha, Sam and a Dr Cho are waiting for him when he comes out of the bathroom. He leans against the bed and listens in stunned silence when Dr Cho tells him about Project Rebirth and Captain America. James nods his head whenever Steve looks at him for confirmation. It’s only when Sam shows him the before and after photos that he starts to believe that he’s nearly a hundred years old and that he’s this Captain America supersoldier person.

“So I’m an Avenger,” he says. Sam and Natasha nod. He points at Sam and Natasha. “And both of you are Avengers.” Sam and Natasha nod again.

“There _are_ a few more,” Sam says, “but they’re staying away for now. Some of them can be a little much to spring on a person, amnesia or no amnesia.”

From the looks they all exchange, that’s something they all agree on.

“What about James?” he asks, nodding at where James is standing a little apart from the rest of them, arms folded and staring at the floor.

Natasha slants a glance at James. “He likes to pretend he’s not,” she says.

James says something to her in… Russian? She raises an eyebrow and her lips quirk as if to say, ‘What are you gonna do about it?’. He gives her a flat-eyed stare but doesn’t say anything else.

He looks back and forth between them. There’s an unusual vibe between them, and they share certain similarities; the fluid and purposeful way they move, the wary watchfulness of people that life has not been kind to, and eyes that look far older than their years. He wonders, and not just for reasons of simple curiosity, what kind of past they share. _Don’t get distracted,_ he warns himself.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” he asks.

What follows is a long explanation involving names like Loki and Thor. They show him phonecam videos and news footage of him fighting someone wearing a helmet with ridiculous-looking horns that makes him look a little like a beetle. How is it not falling off his head? Magic?

But then again, he’s in no position to judge since his suit is basically the American flag and his only weapon is a glorified frisbee. He winces at the bright blue flash that sends him smashing into the side of a building. It’s surreal, watching the footage, knowing that the person on the screen is him, but having no memory of it.

“How do I get my memory back?” he asks, eyes still on the screen.

“Thor’s pretty sure the effects are temporary,” Natasha says. “He’s spoken to a few other sorcerers in Asgard. They recognize the spell and say you should be back to normal in a week or two, but they’re not sure whether your serum would affect that. They’re also trying to find a counterspell that can reverse the effect immediately.”

“That’s not a very definite answer.”

Her smile is apologetic. “I’m sorry we don’t have anything more concrete to tell you, Steve,” she says. “Thor’s doing all he can to fix this.”

He frowns and folds his arms. “But there’s a possibility this might be permanent.”

“It happens to the best of us, Rogers.” There’s an edge to Natasha’s voice when she answers. Then she blinks and the mask slides back in place. “I’m sorry,” she says in a conciliatory voice. “We really are trying, Steve.”

“Steve.”

Everyone turns to look at James.

“It’s a lot to process,” James says. “Maybe you should go home and sleep on it. Give it a day or two.”

“I think Captain Rogers should remain here under observation,” interjects Dr Cho.

“No.” If he’s not going to get any answers, then he wants to go home, wherever that is, and try to figure out who he is on his own terms.

“I’ll stay with him,” James offers.

Dr Cho and Sam both stare at James in surprise. Natasha, though, she’s smirking and looking very pleased about something.

“I think someone needs to explain what’s going on,” he says.

“I told you, I won’t let anything happen to you,” James says. His gaze is clear and unwavering. “I meant it. Ask me anything you want, I’ll do my best to answer.” He holds up his hand to forestall Steve’s questions. “Let’s get out of here first.”

“Okay,” he says at last.

Dr Cho is reluctant, but she finally agrees for Steve to go home as long as James is there to keep an eye on him. Then, James has a short conversation with Natasha in Russian, their heads close together. Their faces are serious, and Natasha nods a few times before giving him an understanding smile.

“Hey Steve,” Sam says, pulling his attention away from James and Natasha, “trust me on this, alright? _Do not_ google yourself. You’ve got a lot of fans on the internet, and some of the stuff on there?” he shakes his head with a wry smile, “best viewed with some perspective.”

Natasha’s grin is wicked. “It’s sound advice, Steve. I’d take it.”

He looks at James, who’s assumed a suspiciously bland expression. “Definitely don’t google yourself,” James says.

Sam stands up from where he’s bent over a large, oddly-shaped bag near the door. “Head’s up!” he shouts, and heaves something at him.

Steve reaches up and snatches it out of the air before he even has time to process the warning. It’s the shield. It’s a _lot_ heavier than it looks and yet he’d automatically compensated for that when he’d caught it. He slides his arm through the loops fixed to the back and swings it a few times. The heft and feel of it is familiar in his hands and it feels like an extension of his arm.

“Still got the moves, Cap,” Sam says, and salutes him with a smile.

He can’t help but smile back.

___

After getting breakfast with James and Sam, he still needs to wait for Dr Cho to give him a physical exam before he can leave. So it’s a couple of hours before a Stark Industries car drops them off at his apartment in Brooklyn.

The apartment is bright, airy and decorated in cool sea tones. The background sounds of traffic are familiar and soothing. And yet, the apartment feels… empty, somehow, impersonal. No little tchotchkes cluttering up the shelves and side tables, everything neat and tidy, if a little dusty. He turns a full circle in the living room.

Who is Steve Rogers? The apartment doesn’t offer much insight... and that’s kind of an answer in itself, isn’t it?

James is standing by the door, holding a duffel bag. Natasha had handed it to him with a murmured “Courtesy of Tony” and that sly smile of hers. James had stared at the bag as if it were full of snakes, which served to make Steve very curious about Tony.

She’d also passed Steve a temporary phone to use while someone named Jarvis runs a brute force attack to crack the password on his own phone. “Of _course_ you got the memo on how to select a strong password,” she’d said. The phone is sleek and light and has an ostentatious ‘A’ etched into the metal casing.

“Your room’s this way,” James says, and leads him down the corridor that’s to the left of the front door. There are two doors facing each other at the end of it. James opens the door on the left. “That’s yours.” He points to the door opposite. “I’ll be in there.”

Steve nods absently as enters his room and leans down to prop the bag holding the shield against the wall. His bedroom is pretty bare. Empty walls, neutral tones, everything squared away, military-tidy. The only thing that stands out is a sketchbook on the bedside table.

“You always liked to draw,” James says.

When Steve picks up the sketchbook, James backs out of the room and closes the door behind him. He wants to call James back, but he doesn’t want to impose. He sits on the bed and starts to flip through the sketchbook. It’s pretty thick, and the paper is very good quality. The oldest pictures are dated from five years ago, which would make it about the time he came out of the ice. There’s a city skyline, a beautiful woman with dark lustrous eyes and full lips, a handsome, laughing man that’s—

It’s James... but a very different James. Full of bravado, brimming with life, a look in his eyes like he has a joke he wants to share. So different from the man he’s just met, who’s quieter, almost guarded, and with eyes that are sadder and older.

He pages through the sketchbook, hoping to find answers for the change. There are random doodles and idle sketches of birds and children playing on the street, hands, and then an old woman, radiant and still beautiful. He flips back to the drawing of the woman in the earlier pages. He’s almost positive it’s the same woman. It’s the eyes. Even muted by time, her eyes are still the same, full of warmth and intelligence, and such strength of spirit.

Another mystery to solve. He carries on turning pages. New faces of people he doesn’t recognize except for Sam and Natasha.

Again and again, there are sketches of the laughing man—it doesn’t feel right to call him James, this man from the past—sometimes just eyes crinkled by a smile, the face nothing but a rough sketch, sometimes a detailed study of his face, jawline lovingly shaded, sometimes a rough sketch of him in motion, full of energy. There are also sketches of a man more like the James he knows, less vibrant, hollow-eyed and thin, dog tags visible in the open collar of his shirt.

Then sometime in 2014, the drawings stop, only to pick up again a year later. He recognizes James, even though his hair is almost brushing his shoulders. The sketches are almost all unfinished and in all of them, James is looking off to the side, his posture closed-off and wary. And unlike the assured lines of the earlier sketches, there’s a hesitance to the lines of these drawings, an unsteadiness in the artist’s— _his—_ hand.

The laughing man starts to show up again. He feels oddly angered by this. Like it’s a betrayal of the James _now_ , a man who’d fought through some kind of personal hell, and emerged as someone who'd stay up all night keeping watch just so his friend would feel safe enough to sleep.

The next few pages contain a few more drawings of the laughing man, but interspersed are drawings of James in a new setting. His hair goes from long to short and there’s more animation in his face. There are a few drawings of him with Natasha, heads close together, hastily sketched. He doesn’t linger on those.

The last drawing in the book is of James, dated nine months prior. It’s drawn in fine detail, down to each individual whisker on his face, and it’s all but finished except for his eyes. He stares at it, unsettled. What did he see in those eyes that he couldn’t bring himself to put down on paper?

He closes the sketchbook. What had happened to James? Was it something related to the Avengers? He pulls out his phone, tempted to google James. Then guilt comes creeping in and he puts it away. James is in his apartment for no other reason than to take care of him. If he wants to know what happened, the right thing to do would be to ask James himself.

And then, of course, there’s the other thing. So many drawings of James done over a period covering five years. It’s kind of hard not to draw some conclusions from that.

___

James is standing in socked feet and shirtsleeves, grilling cheese and ham sandwiches when Steve comes out of his room. Something about the scene feels so _right,_ and he has a sudden overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around James’s waist and press his face into the space between his shoulderblades.

He’s taken two steps forward before he catches himself. He can’t just accost James in his kitchen. And what he’d wanted to do didn’t even make sense; for the position to be possible, he’d have to be—oh. He’d have to be a lot shorter… say around 5’4”.

“Can you get the plates?” James says over his shoulder.

James turns to look at him, and he can feel himself turning red.

“Sure,” he says, trying to act casual. Why the hell is he even blushing? It’s not like he did anything. He sags with relief when James turns back to the stove after nothing more than a curious look.

While he sets the table, he can’t help sneaking looks at James. All his movements are purposeful and tightly controlled, with no wasted motions. His gaze travels down James’s body and gets hung up on the glove he’s still wearing on his left hand. He can’t help picturing it, the contrast of that black glove against his own fair skin, and heat curls in his gut at the thought.

Fuck. He needs to stop. James is his _friend._ He takes a calming breath before going to help James serve up the sandwiches.

“Can you tell me about,” he hesitates, unsure what or even how to ask, “about me?” They’re sitting at the breakfast table, nothing left of their stack of sandwiches except for the crumbs on their plates. He still wants to know why everyone was surprised by James offering to stay with him, but he should probably work up to that.

“What do you want to know?”

“What kind of person am I?”

James taps one finger on the table while considers his answer. “The kind of person who’ll paint a giant target on his back and walk out onto a battlefield.”

He’s seen the uniform and the shield, he can’t argue with that observation. “Doesn’t seem very smart.”

“It’s not,” James says with a level look.

“Why do I do it?”

“Fuck if I know.”

He stares at James in surprise.

James sighs and slants him a remorseful look. “Because you can’t see a wrong without trying to set it right, no matter the personal cost to you. Because you’d rather get shot at so someone else doesn’t have to. Because you can’t stand to see someone get hurt when you can do something about it.” He leans back in his chair. “And since the Army gave you that ridiculous body, happens there’s a lot you can do about it.”

“Well, sure,” Steve says, “that just seems like the right thing to do.” Soldiers the world over did the same things all the time. He doesn’t see why that should earn him a title like ‘Captain _America’_ , even with the enhanced abilities. It just seemed like… hubris.

“Of course you’d say that,” James says, resigned.

“How about us?” he says. “How did we meet?”

“You know how you were born in 1918?”

Steve nods.

“Well, I was born in 1917,” James says. “We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

That surprises a laugh out of him. “We’ve been friends for nearly a hundred years?” Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. James is like him… he’s not the only one.

“Were you part of Project Rebirth too?” he asks.

An odd look flickers over James’s face. “No,” he says, “I have a different version of the serum.”

“Why a different one?”

“Different selection criteria.”

James’s voice is toneless when he answers, like maybe his experience with the serum was not a pleasant one. Steve wants to know more but he doesn’t want to dredge up bad memories, so he drops the subject.

“So you’re the only one who really knows who I am,” he says.

“Not quite.” James looks uncomfortable. “I had… an accident. Lost my memory too, funnily enough. Didn't get everything back.” James notices him looking at the glove on his hand. He pulls it off to reveal the hard cold gleam of metal. “Lost something else, too.”

Steve reaches out without thinking, but stops just before he makes contact. “May I…?”

There’s an unreadable expression on James’s face, but he nods and pushes his sleeve to mid-way up his forearm, revealing more metal. He places his hand palm-down on the table with a metallic click.

Steve traces his fingers over the articulated joints of James’s fingers and the grooves on the back of his hand where the plates of metal meet. The metal is cool to the touch, and he can feel slight imperfections on the smooth surface of the plates as he glides his fingertips up past James’s wrist, little dents and scratches. There’s a slight mechanical whine and then the plates of metal shift sequentially, like a wave, the movement disappearing under the sleeve of his shirt. Steve sucks in a surprised breath. It’s hypnotic and fascinating and beautiful.

“What was that?”

“Recalibration,” James says. “It does that sometimes.”

“Is it okay—I mean, can I ask about it?”

James shrugs. “Sure, Steve. I don’t mind.”

“Can you feel it when I touch you?”

“Not much on my arm,” James says. “Mostly the palm, and especially the fingers.”

He trails his fingers back down towards James’s hand, movements slow and gentle. He turns James’s hand over and glides his fingers over the palm and fingers, drawing imaginary swirls and lines. The pounding of his heart is loud in his ears.

“Can you feel this?” he asks.

James nods.

“What does it feel like?”

“You know when you’ve been out in the cold for a while,” James says, “and you don’t have gloves on, how your hands get numb? Then when you touch something, you can sort of feel it, but it’s… distant. Something like that.”

“How far up does it go?”

The fingers on James’s hand curl close and he slides his hand off the table. Steve leans back in surprise, only then realising how close he’d moved towards James.

“Far enough,” James says. Then he pulls his shirt off in a smooth, sinuous motion.

Steve sucks in a shocked breath. The metal extends up past James’s shoulder joint, covering part of his clavicle and upper chest. There’s a faded red star painted on the deltoid, an inverse twin to the star on his shield. Thick ropy scars radiate out from where the underlayer of metal appears fused to James’s skin.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, voice coming out gruffer than he intended.

James shrugs. “Don’t notice it anymore.”

“So that’s a ‘yes’.”

“It's okay, Steve,” James says. “It’s—It’s my arm, y’know? And it’s a good one.” He pulls his shirt back on. “It’s worth a little pain,” he says, head turned away from Steve.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, “I was out of line. It’s an amazing piece of tech.” He reaches out slowly, giving James time to pull away, and strokes his finger over James’s hand one last time. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks.” There’s a sad, wistful sort of look in James’s eyes when he answers.

“Why did everyone act so strange when you said you’d stay with me?”

“We’re not,” James hesitates, jaw working, “we’re not as close as we used to be.”

When James doesn’t elaborate further, Steve says, a little hesitantly, “Did we argue?”

“No. Nothing so simple. I wasn’t… asleep like you for seventy years. I was… operational.” —What did he mean _‘operational’_?— “I’m not the same man you knew before you went into the ice, Steve. I guess you could say we grew apart.” James pushes his chair back from the table. “Let’s clean up.”

“I—okay,” he says, caught out by the abrupt end to the conversation. “I’ll wash up since you cooked.”

James nods and goes into his room, closing the door behind him. Steve swallows a sigh. He was kind of hoping James would keep him company while he worked.

___

James is still in his room when Steve’s done with the clean-up, so he explores the apartment looking for more clues about himself. His fridge is pretty bare but his freezer is well stocked with ready-made meals, and there are lots of take-away menus stuck to the fridge door. His bookshelves, which are oddly dust-free compared to the rest of the apartment, contain a mix of non-fiction books. Most of the books look like assigned reading for someone playing catch-up: military tactics, world history, technological advances, culture, mostly covering the years he was in the ice.

Only one book catches his eye, an art book with its brightly colored spine, a book that he could picture himself reading just for the pleasure of it. He pulls it out and opens it. There’s an inscription on the front page: _Live a little, Rogers. Nat._ He stares at it for a long moment before returning it to the shelf.

He moves to his bedroom. A glance around confirms it to be just as bare as he remembered. He closes his eyes and pictures the room. The image in his head is a perfect replica of the actual room, down to the little chip on the corner of the bathroom door and the number of screws bolting the chin-up bar to the bathroom doorframe. Eidetic memory, they’d told him. That must come in handy in his line of work.

He walks over to the chin-up bar. Curious, he grabs on and pulls himself up. It’s effortless. He tries it using just one hand. Still effortless. He hangs there for a moment, and then tries it with just his index finger hooked over the bar... effortless. He let’s go and that feeling of surreality sweeps over him again.

He opens his cupboard and inspects the clothes inside. Mostly blues, grays, and tans, some black, nothing bright. A few jackets, including a weathered brown leather one. All the clothes have a classic, timeless look to them.

And then there are the two Captain America suits; one is a replica of the suit from the footage, and the other is mostly navy blue with white accents and discreet red panels on the sides. He pulls out the navy one and holds it up. It’s... pretty badass.

He goes through the bureau next. More grays, blues, blacks and neutrals. Seems like the only time he wants to draw attention to himself is when he’s fighting.

Then he discovers a flat box hidden at the back of his underwear drawer. Inside, he finds a plain black hair-tie— _James used to have long hair_ , he thinks—a set of dog tags stamped with the name James B. Barnes, and a nine-inch long knife with a matte-black serrated blade and black handle. It’s sleek and perfectly balanced and wouldn’t look out of place in the mouth of a shark. He flips it a few times, but it doesn’t feel familiar in his hands the way the shield does. It’s not his, but he’s pretty sure he knows who it belongs to.

He puts everything back inside the box and slides it back into place. That’s when he notices the black t-shirt. It’d been rolled up and shoved behind the box. He pulls it out and holds it up. It’s soft and worn and stretched out of shape. From the way it’d been hidden, he’s pretty sure he knows who it belongs to as well.

All these things, he’d kept them as mementos of James.

There’s a knock on his door and the sound of it opening. “Hey, Ste—” he shoves the t-shirt back and slams the drawer shut so fast he almost clips the tips of his fingers “—ve...”

He spins around and leans back against the bureau with his arms folded. His body language screams ‘GUILTY’ and James picks up on it straight away.

He studies Steve with a gleam in his eyes, his body a sinuous line where he leans against the doorjamb. “What’s in the drawer, Steve?” he asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“Nothing,” Steve blurts out. “Socks.” And then, because he's an idiot, “Underwear.” His cheeks feel like they’re on fire, and from the look on James’s face, he _really_ doesn’t want to know what James thinks he has in there.

James shakes his head and smiles. It’s a small, lopsided thing, but his eyes are warm. “You wanna watch—?”

“ _Yes_.” He’s out the door before James finishes the question.

___

Steve’s half concentrating on the documentary that’s on. The only thing that’s registered is that the narrator sounds like he’s about to pass out from asphyxiation. He’s too distracted by James in the armchair next to him, and the way the exposed metal of his arm coruscates in the flickering light of the tv.

The metal plates do that eerily beautiful shifting thing, and he looks up to find James watching him with a curious expression on his face. Shit. How long had he been staring at James’s arm?

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Your arm... with the lights”—he makes a vague motion with his hand—“it’s beautiful,” he finishes lamely.

One corner of James’s mouth tips up in a quizzical smile. “It’s okay,” he says.

The doorbell rings, breaking the moment. It’s a man in a Stark Industries uniform with several bags of groceries. They take the bags from him and set them on the kitchen counter after sending him off with their thanks.

“That’s a lot of food,” Steve observes.

“The serum accelerated your metabolism,” James says, “so now you need to eat every few hours. Better if it’s protein.”

No wonder James kept feeding him. And now that he thought about it, he _was_ getting a little hungry, even though they’d eaten not long ago. “Is it the same for you?” he asks.

“To a lesser degree.”

They work together to put away the groceries, moving around each other like a dance performed so many times the steps have become ingrained, instinctively knowing where the other is at all times. That ease continues while they make a pot of pasta sauce. They fall into a comfortable rhythm and Steve feels a pleasant tingle every time James brushes past him, and maybe he doesn’t move out of the way as much as he could.

He runs the tap over the tomatoes in the sink and glances sidelong at James. “I looked through the sketchbook.” The staccato rhythm of James’s chopping falters. “There’s a drawing of an old lady. Who is she?”

James resumes his chopping. “Peggy Carter,” he says. “You two were in love during the war. Hell of a woman.” In the sudden silence, James says in a gentle voice, “She passed away last year.”

His hands still. He doesn’t even know how to feel about that. He’d loved a woman, and he can’t even—there’s just… nothing left. Not even an echo of emotion.  

A hand clasps his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Steve.”

“I can’t even feel sad, James.” He turns to look at James. “I don’t even know enough to feel sad.”

“I know,” James says, voice soft with understanding.

Steve wants to curl up with shame. If anyone would know, it’d be James.

“Give your team some time, Steve, you’ll get your memories back. Two weeks at the most, right?”

And that kind of put things in perspective. He’s guessing James lost his memory some time in 2014? James has been dealing with it for two years now, so the least he can do is to handle it for the time being.

“Yeah.” He assays a smile. “Sorry.”

James shakes him lightly by the shoulder. “Nothing to be sorry for.” He nods at the tomatoes in the sink. “They’re not gonna wash themselves,” he says, and goes back to chopping onions.

Steve starts washing tomatoes. “What was she like?”

“Carter? I don’t think I knew her well, ‘cause I don’t have many memories of her. Just impressions, really. Smart. Didn’t suffer fools gladly.”

Steve looks up. Something about the way James said that last bit… But he’d already turned away to scrape the diced onions into the pot.

Steve looks back down. “There were drawings of you as well.”

James freezes.

“But I won’t ask.”

“Thank you,” James says. Steve can just make it out over the sound of running water and the onions sizzling in the pot.

The apartment is soon filled with the comforting scent of the red sauce as it simmers over a low flame. It’s what he imagines a home smells like.

James disappears into his room again when they finish up in the kitchen. Steve swallows his disappointment and wanders aimlessly around the apartment. The second time his feet bring him past James’s door, it opens to reveal a quietly amused James. He slips past Steve with a side-long glance and settles down on the couch to read, something cat-like in the sprawl of his limbs.

Should he—? _Oh._ James picked the _couch_. He’d used the armchair earlier, but this time, James picked the couch. He gets the art book from the shelf and settles in next to James. He doesn’t sit as close as he’d like to, but still closer than is strictly polite. A slight motion catches his attention, James rubbing the corner of the throw cushion with the thumb of his right hand. It’s not the first time he’s noticed James doing something similar, like his fingers are constantly seeking out texture. It’s an unusual habit for someone who’s otherwise so still.

He doesn’t ask anymore questions. There’s no point picking at his past when he has no context to process anything, anyway. He’ll leave it for the next few days, at least, and just enjoy his time with James.

By the end of the day, he’s sitting close enough to James that their shoulders are touching. They’re watching an old episode of Star Trek, socked feet propped up on the coffee table, sharing a bowl of popcorn between them. James’s company isn’t exactly restful, he’s too aware of James for that, but he feels… complete, like a long-misplaced puzzle piece has finally been slotted into place.

___

There’s a cold wind blowing in his face, chilling the tracks of the tears on his cheeks. He’s somewhere high up and moving fast. He’s… he’s lost something, leaving it further and further behind as he hurtles forward. His heart feels like it’s cracking in two. It hurts so much. He wants to fall too. He wants to let go and—

“Steve. Steve, wake up.”

Someone’s calling him. It’s... James…? But that’s not right…

He opens his eyes slowly. James is leaning over him, face drawn and his eyes full of worry. With gentle fingers, James brushes away the tears on his cheeks. “Your name is Steven Grant Rogers,” James says in a low voice that soothes the jagged edges of his heart. “It’s 2016, you’re having a nightmare, you’re in your apartment.”

“James...” he whispers.

“Yeah, Stevie,” James says, “it’s me.”

He fists his hands in James’s t-shirt and curls in around the hollow ache in his chest, pulling James till he’s curved over him.

“It’s okay, Steve.” James wraps his arm around Steve. It’s the metal one, and it’s cold, and heavier than he expected, but he doesn’t care. He breathes in James’s scent, a mix of his soap and the faint metallic tang of his arm and something that’s just _James_ , and his chest begins to loosen.

When James shifts back a little, he panics and his hands tighten on James’s shirt. “Please,” he whispers.

James hesitates.

“Please,” he whispers again.

“Okay, Steve, I’ll stay.”

He shifts to make room for James, turning on his side with his back to James, silently asking to be held. James slides in behind him and curls himself around Steve, pulling up the covers to ward off the cold. He shouldn’t make James to stay, but he just… he just can’t bear the thought of James leaving him right now.

James lays his metal arm tentatively along Steve’s side and Steve flinches in surprise when its cold surface comes into contact with the skin exposed by his bunched up t-shirt. “Sorry,” James mumbles, and starts to pull away.

Steve tangles the fingers of his left hand with James’s metal ones, and pulls his arm tightly around himself. James exhales and finally relaxes. The warmth of James’s breath against his neck sends a shiver chasing down his spine.

With the solid bulk of James’s body behind him, he can finally catch his breath again. The ache in his chest dissipates and the heat of James’s body dispels the chill that had felt bone-deep. He closes his eyes with a sigh.

Just before sleep reclaims him, he almost imagines the sensation of warm lips brushing against the back of his neck.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes slowly, feeling warm and well-rested, but the sense of wellbeing is muted when he sees that he’s alone in the bed. If it wasn’t for the rumpled covers and the depression in the other pillow, he might’ve thought falling asleep with James wrapped around him had been just a dream, only one far better than the dream that preceded it.

He slides his hand over the surface of the bed, seeking out the last traces of James’s warmth trapped under the covers. He wishes—no, it should be enough to know that James is still somewhere in the apartment with him.

He throws back the covers and sits up, scratching absently at his arm. An odd texture to his skin makes him look down in surprise. Warmth blooms in his chest when he recognizes the familiar pattern of lines on his inner arm. They’re an imprint of the metal plates on James’s arm. He traces his finger over the lines, a smile tugging at his lips. He likes seeing them on his skin, tangible evidence James had stayed with him till morning.

James is in the kitchen when Steve leaves the bedroom. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, mug of coffee in his hand, his hair standing up in tufts, pillow creases on a face still a little puffy from sleep. The bright morning light reveals the lines etched into the corners of his eyes and the grooves bracketing his mouth, the imprints of the life he’s led. They make him beautiful in the way of things tempered in a crucible.

Steve wants so badly to walk up to him and press a kiss to his lips in greeting. His eyes drift downwards.

What—  

James narrows his eyes and points a threatening finger at Steve. “Not. One. Word.”

He’s wearing a t-shirt that proclaims him ‘Captain America’s No.1 fan’, pajama pants with lots of tiny little red, white and blue shield logos printed on them, and a long-suffering expression on his face.

“Number one fan, huh?” Steve says. “I’m flattered.”

James snorts. “Stark thinks he’s funny. You think you're funny. I'm surrounded by comedians.”

“I gotta ask,” Steve says, “is there matching underwear?”

James puts down his mug, rests the heels of his hands on the countertop and lounges back, his t-shirt stretching across his broad chest in a way that makes Steve’s mouth go dry. He crosses his legs at the ankles and Steve’s eyes are drawn down the length of his body, past the long, muscled lines of his legs, to his bare feet. There's something vulnerable about the sight of them, pale and surprisingly bony against the honey-toned wood of the floor.

“Are you fishing for a look?”

Steve’s gaze snaps back up. James is smiling at him from under his lashes, slow and wicked and promising all sorts of debauchery.

“Are you’re offering?” Steve says, his mouth having decoupled itself from his brain. It’s the way James’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. Steve would challenge anyone not to be distracted by the eye crinkles.

“Not wearing any right now.” James gives a laconic shrug. “Maybe another time.”

 _‘Another time’_ , Steve thinks, while struggling to keep his gaze from straying south. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says faintly. That was—James was flirting, right?

“You do that,” James says with a small, sly smile.

Okay, that was _definitely_ flirting.

“Can I buy you breakfast?” Steve blurts out. He rubs the back of his neck. Christ, that was awkward. “You know, to thank you for everything you’re doing.”

James straightens up from the counter, suddenly awkward, too. “You don't have to.”

“I want to. Please. It means a lot to me that you're doing this even though”—fuck, but it kind of hurts to say—“we’re not really friends anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t still look out for you, Steve,” James says. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, though. Loki's not the only one out there you have to worry about.”

“Oh.” Steve deflates. “Okay.”

“You know, I think I remember that about you,” James says. “You always hated being cooped up when you were sick. You were the fucking worst patient.”

“How’d you know that? Did we live together?” No wonder sharing space with James feels so effortless.

“Yeah,” James says. “You moved in with me and my family after your ma died.”

“You and your family sound like good people.”

“Yeah, they do, don't they.” His smile is soft and sad.

“Oh god, I'm sorry, James. I didn't mean—”

“Hey, it's okay,” James says. “I've had a long time to come to terms with it. Ask away, I know you've got another six thousand questions.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Get it out of your system,” James says with a wry smile.

“Well, okay then.”

James nods.

“How long did I stay with you?”

“Maybe… five years? Till we both left for the war,” James says. “That's what the history books say, at any rate.”

“Did we ever”—Steve gestures back and forth between them, ignoring the way his cheeks are burning—“Were we…?”

It takes a moment for James to get his meaning, and then he goes a little pink around the cheeks, too. He shakes his head. “You like women, Steve.”

As answers go, it sidesteps a lot. Also, he's pretty sure he doesn't _just_ like women. Not if his reaction to James is any indication.

Before he can say anything else, James says, “If you really want to go out, I think we’ll be okay if we stay away from the city.”

“Okay,” he says with a smile, letting himself be distracted. “Can we go see your old place?”

“It was your place too, Steve.” James is smiling too, catching Steve’s mood. “But you remember how old we are right? It was torn down a long time ago. I can show you the neighbourhood, though,” he offers.

“I’d like that.” He’s probably grinning like an idiot, but he can’t bring himself to care.

____

The whole time Steve's getting ready, his mind chants _date date date._ It's not helping his nerves, especially since he can't decide on what to wear. His clothes are all on the understated side, but he wants to make an impression. He pulls out a grey t-shirt. It looks tight. Very tight. He looks down at his chest. Too obvious…? He puts it back.

Okay, he can do this. Plain white t-shirt, the tightest blue jeans he can find, brown leather jacket and a pair of brown work boots. He looks at himself in the mirror. Not bad... Not bad at all. He takes a deep, calming breath and leaves his bedroom.

James is waiting for him by the front door. He's dressed in a black leather jacket, dark gray t-shirt and black cargo pants that hug his muscular thighs. Black combat boots and black leather gloves complete the outfit. He looks _really_ good.

There're two full-face motorbike helmets on the side table next to him. All black, including the tinted visors. Steve stares at them in surprise. “How did you…?”

“Got someone to send everything over. It’s good to have friends.” James tosses him one of the helmets. “You ride at the back.”

He doesn’t argue. Wrapping himself around James is certainly going to be no hardship.

In the underground garage, he spots two bikes; a Harley and a racing bike with a matte black custom paint job. He’s pretty sure which bike belongs to James; it’s powerful and sleek and looks deadly, just like its owner.

He hangs back a little so he can fully appreciate the way James moves like a well-oiled machine, and his mouth goes a little dry at the sight of James swinging his leg smoothly over the seat. James settles back and gives him an expectant look.

He climbs up behind James. The rear seat is set a fair bit higher than the front and he ends up with his thighs gripping James’s waist. They put on their helmets and James leans forward to start the engine. The muscles in James’s sides flex against his inner thighs.

“Ready?” James asks, his voice coming through the speaker in Steve’s helmet.

It sounds intimately close, like James is speaking right in his ear. Coupled with the feel of James’s body pressed tightly to his, it sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

“Yeah.” It's a relief when his voice comes out sounding normal.

“Hold on tight.”

James starts the engine. It makes an aggressive snarl that shifts to a muted roar when he revs the engine. Steve leans forward and wraps his arms around James's torso, choosing to take the invitation literally.

Five minutes into the ride, he can understand why James asked him to hold on tight; he weaves in and out of traffic at breakneck speeds, barely slows down for turns and passes other vehicles with inches to spare. At the speeds they’re going, he has to plaster his body to James’s back so he doesn’t throw off their balance. His body instinctively moves together with James’s when he leans into the turns and straightens out again. For all its seeming recklessness, James’s riding is precise and controlled and finely judged down to the last inch. He loves every minute of it.

At one point, they pass between two buses going in opposite directions, the gap so narrow that they have to pull their knees in close. He can't hold back his laugh. “You’re a fucking lunatic!”

“Fuck you,” James says, and Steve can hear the answering smile in his voice, “you love it. Don't forget I've seen you fight.”

“Can you teach me to ride your bike?”

“You already know how to ride a bike.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never ridden one like yours,” he says. “Right...?” It’s weak, he knows, but he just wants an excuse to spend time with James.

There’s a long silence broken only by the high whine of the engine. Steve waits, nervous, hopeful.

“Sure, Steve,” James says at last. “When all this is over, and if you still want to, come find me.”

___

James brings him to a diner in Hell’s Kitchen that looks like it’s been around for at least a good fifty years. It’s a little rundown, colors muted by time, but it’s clean and well-maintained. It’s pretty empty inside and the clientele is an unassuming bunch. Apart from a cursory glance, no one pays them any attention when they walk in. They take a seat in the corner booth, James with his back to the wall.

The proprietor is exactly how Steve would have pictured him: burly, with a halo of white hair surrounding a taciturn visage. He seems to know James; they don’t acknowledge each other beyond a nod, but he doesn’t bat an eyelid when James orders them both breakfast with all the extras and then some. Steve protests, but James says, “You’re too thin, Steve. You need to eat more.”

He stares down at himself, a little bewildered.

James rolls his eyes. “I know what you look like,” he says, “but I checked your charts, and you’re at least ten pounds underweight.”

“You know how much I’m supposed to weigh?” Steve says, surprised.

“Yeah,” James says, “I got the serum too, remember? My memory’s almost as good as yours.”

There’s a short, awkward silence as they both think about that statement for a moment.  

“You know what I mean,” James says dryly.

They smile at each other, small and rueful.

James takes him around their old neighbourhood after they leave the diner. Everything looks too new to have been around since they lived there. Nothing he sees strikes a chord with him, not even the dead-end, trash-littered alley where they first met. He strains against the resounding emptiness where his past should be, frustrated that even this memory is lost to him. But no matter how hard he tries, there’s nothing.

“You can’t force it you know,” James says, “the memories. Either they come back or they don’t.”

He looks towards where James is standing, a dark form in the shadow of the far wall, keeping watch on both Steve and the entrance to the alley. Does a memory of an event that occurred years ago in their shared past matter all that much when he has the living, breathing person in front of him? He turns around and walks back to James.

“Was it like that for you?” he asks.

“Yeah.” James continues to look out into the street. “I tried, Steve. I really tried.”

There’s something in James’s voice... like an apology... like guilt. He feels a strange twisting sensation in his chest.  

“What's it like,” he says, “not getting everything back?” He’s a little hesitant to ask, but he wants to know, and not just for his own sake. “I mean—You don't have to answer if you don't want to. Or if you've already told me before…?”

This gets James’s attention. He slants Steve a look before long lashes sweep down to hide his eyes. “You never asked me before.” James puts on his sunglasses and starts walking back to where they’d left the bike.

Steve follows suit and falls into step beside him, close enough that their arms brush against each other. There are more people on the streets now that it’s nearing lunch hour, but when confronted by two large men in caps and sunglasses, people evaporate out of their way. James continues looking around as he walks, making it hard for Steve see his face.

He’d never asked James about his memory loss? What sort of friend was he to James? Didn’t sound like he was a good one. Was _he_ the one who’d, for whatever reason, left James behind? But then what about the box of keepsakes?

James says, “The guy I used to be... he’s like character in a movie I saw a long time ago. I remember a lot of scenes, but sometimes not the context.” He shrugs. “Sometimes I’m not even sure if some of the things I see in my head are real or just stuff I read about or saw in documentaries. Maybe just my mind playing tricks on me… wishful thinking. Some things stayed with me, though.”

Steve wishes James’s eyes weren't hidden by his sunglasses, because there was something in his voice at the end there…

“How do you deal with it?” Steve asks.

A slight shift of the shoulders. “I had to let him go, stop trying to get him back, to be him. I had to take all the pieces that remained and the new stuff that got put in and just… start over.”

Steve is about to ask what he means by ‘new stuff’ when James’s phone beeps with an incoming message. It’s only because he was watching James so closely that he notices the way his lips tighten as he reads the message.

“What’s wrong?” he asks after James puts away the phone.

“Thor’s come through with the counterspell. They’re waiting for you at your apartment.” James’s lips curve into an approximation of a smile. “Time to get your memories back, Steve.”

Steve feels torn. He wants to get out of the holding pattern he’s in, get his life back, his past back. But then there’s another part of him that’s not ready to lose James to the old him who was too stupid to treasure him. Which didn’t even make sense because it’s not like getting his memories back would wipe out these past few days. Whatever happens, he promises himself, he’s not letting go of this… _something_ that's developing between them.

The ride back seems to take hardly any time at all. The closer they get to the apartment, the heavier his heart feels.

“Can we just... ride for a little longer?”

“Sure, Steve.”

He doesn’t think he’s imagining the quiet relief he hears in James’s voice. He’s glad he’s not the only who wants to put off going back.

James opens up the throttle and speeds past the entrance to the apartment’s underground garage, and Steve curls his body around James and lets himself enjoy the closeness for just a little while more.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve opens his eyes. He’s lying on the couch, still in the same clothes he’d worn to breakfast with Bu—no, _James_. That was the one thing he’d ever asked of Steve when he’d come back, to be called James, and Steve will do whatever it takes to honor that request.

Nat is watching him from where she’s curled up in the armchair, phone in her hand. “Hey,” she says, “you kind of scared us for a moment.”

“Nat.”

Her smile falters. “Are you back?”

“Yeah.”

“You don't sound very happy about it.”

There’s no point denying it, so he doesn’t answer. He sits up and looks around the apartment, noting the empty spot on the coat rack where James's jacket used to hang.

“Where’s everyone?”

“Thor’s gone back to continue looking for Loki. Sam has a Big Brother outing with Tre.”

“And James?” he asks, because there’s always that last little flicker of hope that just won’t die.

Nat's sympathetic look says it all.

“You should talk to him,” she says.

He lies back down and closes his eyes, feeling tired all the way down to his bones. “What's the point, Nat. He clearly doesn't want anything to do with me now that I'm me again.”

She takes a seat on the couch, nudging at his legs till he shifts to make room for her. “I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“He left, Nat. Seems pretty simple to me.”

She pokes his calf to get him to open his eyes. “You never talked to him, did you, not even when he moved out?”

“What was I supposed to say when he told me he’d already found a place?”

“Ask him to stay? Ask him why he wanted to move out?”

He looks away. “I did ask him to stay,” he says softly. And the curse of his enhanced memory is that he can never forget even one word of that conversation. “He said he needed space. He changed it to needing _his own_ space, but I got the message.”

“Did you ask him why?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Nat asks, voice so gentle, like she already knows the answer.

What could he say? That he was scared? That he didn’t want to know if _he_ was the reason James left? Because he’d done a shit job of hiding his feelings? He didn’t think his heart would recover from that. So he didn’t ask. And if James hadn’t known for sure before, well, the past two days should have confirmed it for him.

Nat dips her head to look him in the eye. “Talk to him.” She grips his hand briefly and gives it a little shake. “ _Please._ ” She gets to her feet. “You know Cho will want to have a look at you to make sure everything checks out, Steve.”

He curls onto his side and presses his forehead to the back pillow. “Tomorrow,” he says.

There’s a short silence, then Nat places her hand on his shoulder. “Okay,” she agrees, “tomorrow.” She gathers up her things and leaves the apartment, closing the door softly behind her.

Quiet settles over the apartment, but he can find no peace in it.

Having James back, smiling, teasing, still so kind even after everything he’d gone through, and without the specter of his own guilt tainting every interaction... It’d felt like the first easy breaths he’d taken after months of struggling for air.  

And James had flirted with him. He’s not wrong about that, he’s sure. He knows that look James gets, he’d spent enough time watching him in dance halls and bars and pubs, after all. And he’d hoped—His breath leaves him on a long sigh.

Loss and loneliness and rejection press on him, doubly heavy and smothering. He feels like his heart is breaking all over again, and this time, he doesn’t think he has enough left in himself to piece it back together.

He hardly leaves the couch the rest of the day. He gets messages from Nat and Sam, Tony and even a simple “Hope you’re ok,” from Bruce, but he ignores them all. He eats on autopilot, warming up the pasta sauce he and James had cooked together. The empty place at the table mocks him. He eats standing up at the sink. The food tastes like ashes in his mouth.

His sleep that night is plagued by dreams, James falling again and again. And every time, Steve fails to catch him. After the fifth time he jerks awake, he climbs out of bed feeling wrung out and exhausted.

He gets his sketchbook and doodles aimlessly until a picture begins to take shape on the paper. It’s James, of course. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-smile on his face, wearing that ridiculous t-shirt from Tony, a definite invitation in his eyes.

Whether it was fate, or just sheer dumb luck that they’d both ended up here and now, seventy years in the future, in a time where they could actually be together without getting thrown in jail, he’s got a second chance. And this time, he’s not wasting it.

___

9.15am

STEVE: Remember you said if I still wanted to learn to ride your bike, that I should come find you after I get my memories back? Well this is me finding you

STEVE: I mean I’d still like to learn to ride your bike if you’re still willing to teach me

STEVE: Sorry if I wasn’t clear

STEVE: This is Steve btw

9.18am

JAMES: This isn’t funny nat

STEVE: This isn’t a joke. I’m really Steve

9.26am

STEVE: [image sent: rough sketch of James and his bike, captioned “Please teach me to ride your bike?”]

9.47am

JAMES: Ok

JAMES: When is good for you

STEVE: Anytime tomorrow? I’ll be in your area around 10am

JAMES: 10am sounds good come by when you’re ready

STEVE: I’ll see you then :)

___

Steve rings the doorbell at 10am sharp.

James opens the door looking harried, and waves him inside. “Sorry I’m running late. I got held up at the shooting range,” he says. “I just need five more minutes.”

“Take as long as you need.”

James gives him a grateful smile and hurries off to his room.

Steve looks around. It’s his first time inside James’s apartment, he’d never been invited, and he’d never gathered up the courage to ask to see it. It had been another cut that had never stopped bleeding.

The apartment looks inviting and comfortable. It’s all soft corners, rounded edges and warm hues. The couch and matching armchair are low-slung, scattered with throw pillows, and look perfect for relaxing in. A book lies open on the coffee table. Everywhere he looks, he sees textures; nubbly fabrics, unvarnished and weathered wood with a visible grain. Everything invites touch. He tries not to think about stainless steel and cold, echoing chambers.

There are shelves full of books, and little keepsakes scattered around, including a set of matryoshka dolls painted silver, black, and red. With that dark Russian humor that James and Nat sometimes share, he’d bet they were a housewarming gift from her. There’s a bowl of fruit on the breakfast counter. He smiles when he notices his sketch stuck to the fridge door with a magnet.

In the months since James had moved in, he’d turned his apartment into more of a home than Steve had managed with his own place in two years. James always had a knack for living in the present, enjoying each moment as it came. Steve had always been too busy looking for the next obstacle to throw himself against, too hungry to make a difference.

The bedroom door opens, and James comes out, hair still damp from his shower and standing up in roughly-towelled spikes. “Can you grab the bag?” He points at the backpack that’s on one of the dining chairs.

Steve picks it up and gives it a curious shake. “What's inside?”

“Water, snacks, a _helmet_ ,” this last said with a pointed look.

“You know I heal quick,” Steve says.

“Why get hurt if you don't have to?” Then he casts his eyes heavenward. “What am I saying. I forgot who I was talking to for a moment there.”

“Not funny, James. _Really_ not funny.”

“If I can’t joke about my memory, who can?”

Steve winces. He’s got a point.

They take the 495 out to Long Island, Steve riding on the back again. James pulls over about one and half hours later at a beautiful old rec centre with rolling lawns and shade trees, leaves already mostly turned to orange.

James gets off the bike so Steve can move up to the front seat. “It’s got a faster pick-up than your Harley,” James says, “so you gotta go easy on the throttle or you might end up doing a wheelie.” He points at Steve. “Do _not_ get any ideas. Other than that, it should be about the same as riding your bike.”

“You're not getting on?”

“How used are you to having someone on the back? Your bike’s just got the one seat, Steve,” James says. “You get used to balancing your turns first, then we’ll move on to riding two up.”

He should look into getting a bike with a rear seat. A guy can always hope. He starts the engine, gunning it a few times to get a feel for the throttle.

James keeps his hand on the handlebar. “I know how you treat your bikes, Steve, but this is _my_ bike, and you are _not_ allowed to throw it.”

“But what if there’s a bad guy, James?” he asks in an innocent voice. “What else am I going to throw?”

James gives him a look that’s singularly unimpressed. “Throw the fucking helmet.” He steps back from the bike. “Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

Steve grins and slaps the helmet visor down. He makes sure to ride off with exaggerated care before gunning it. It’s a lot like riding his own bike. The only thing that takes a bit of getting used to is the forward-leaning position and the different weight distribution of the bike. After ten minutes, he’s pretty sure he’s got the hang of it, and he heads back to the rec centre to find James. He spots him lounging on the grass with his back against a tree, sunglasses on. He looks like he’s dozing, but Steve would bet good money that he’s wide awake and scanning the surroundings.

He parks the bike and walks over to join James, dropping down on the grass next to him. He gives James a triumphant smile. “Not a scratch.”

“Good,” James says, sounding relieved.

Steve clears his throat. “You wanna go for a ride?” His heart thumps uncomfortably in his chest while he waits for James to answer.

James grabs his helmet and stands up. “Well?” he says, looking down at Steve. “Come on, then.”

Steve scrambles to his feet, in a rush to beat James to the bike since he's got a particular destination in mind. James’s steps falter when Steve overtakes him, and then he shakes his head with a smile before getting on the back.

Steve retraces his route back to a restaurant he’d passed earlier that specialized in burgers. Thank god for that eidetic memory, because having James pressed to his back is hell on the concentration. “You want to grab lunch?” he asks. “My treat.”

“Sure.”

Steve parks the bike and they take off their helmets. James scrubs his hands through his hair a few times, and just like that, he turns it from flat, helmet hair to sexy and disheveled. How does he _do_ that?

He tries to at least fluff up his own hair, but when he checks his reflection in the restaurant’s glass windows, he can see that he didn’t quite succeed. He swallows a sigh and tries not to worry about it.

The restaurant’s doing pretty good business for a Thursday afternoon and they get a few looks when they walk in, but sunglasses indoors is accepted New Yorker code for going incognito, so nobody approaches them. They get their orders and sit down at the old style diner tables.

“Ten dollar burgers,” Steve says. “I’m still not used to that.”

“I don’t—” James looks a little uncomfortable. “When I got out, everything was already like this, so…”

Shit. He could kick himself for bringing up the past, he’d forgotten how uncomfortable it made James. And how that would make _him_ uncomfortable, and then their conversations would just trail off… uncomfortably. This time though, he decides to brazen it out.

“First time I walked into a supermarket, it took me ten minutes just to find the eggs, and another five minutes to figure out which eggs to buy.”

“That was pretty much what happened to me, too.” James smiles down at his burger. “Still happens to me in the yogurt section.”

Steve nods fervently. _“Yogurt.”_

And after that, it’s easy. James might not remember much about what life was like when they were growing up, but he did essentially wake up in the present day with very little frame of reference for modern life. So he’s as much a man outside of time as Steve is.

They finish eating too soon for his liking, and then they’re back on the bike and heading back towards the city, Steve taking the rear seat. He has to stop himself from hugging James too tightly on the ride back, buoyant from how well their outing had gone. There’s another word that hovers at the back of his mind, but he doesn’t want to jinx anything by using it.

“Thanks for… you know, letting me try out your bike,” Steve says. He’s standing next to his Harley, reluctant to get on because it’d signal the end of their time together.

“No problem,” James says. He doesn’t seem quite ready to leave, too.

“I had a great time.” Steve winces at how much that came out sounding like a line in a cliched romcom.

James ducks his head, a lopsided smile curling up one corner of his mouth. “Me too.”

“Okay,” he says. He’s trying not to grin like a fool, so he ends up giving James a weird, scrunched up smile instead.

“Okay,” James echoes.

“I should”—he points at his bike—“I guess I should get going.”

James looks like he’s about to say something, then he changes his mind and nods. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Right.” Steve gets on his bike, but doesn’t start the engine. “I’ll see you around,” he says, but it comes out sounding like a question.

“Yeah,” James says, answering that unspoken question.

There’s a light in James’s eyes that Steve hasn’t seen in far too long. He’s not ready to leave, but he doesn’t want to push too hard, so he starts his engine, lifts a hand in farewell and rides off. The smile he’s been trying to hold back finally breaks through. For the first time since a windy mountaintop in 1945, he can see a future for himself that he actually looks forward to.

___

“So I heard you finally asked Barnes out on a date,” Sam says, just as Steve takes a sip from his cup.

Steve chokes on his coffee. “Where did you—? Date—?” he splutters. “No, I didn’t. He was teaching me to ride his bike.”

Sam gives him a _look._ “Come on, man. I've seen you ride that bike of yours. You don't need no lessons _._ ” He leans forward to study Steve’s face. “Awww. Look at you, all blushing and shit.”

“Fuck you.” He puts his cup down. “Is this why you offered to buy me coffee? So you could ambush me?”

Sam snickers and takes a self-satisfied sip of his coffee.

Steve gives a defeated sigh. “You think he suspects?”

“Sure he does. He’s no fool, Steve,” Sam says. “But he still said yes.” He toasts Steve with his cup of coffee. “Congratulations. You guys went on your first date. It's about time you two pulled your heads out of your asses and stop being so sad all the time.”

He toys with the crumpled-up receipt on the table. “James isn’t sad.”

“You sure about that?” Sam says, eyebrows arched up high. “You’ve been avoiding him for months.”

He opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it again. “Okay, yeah. I have.”

“And that’s why you're _both_ sad.”

___

2.34pm

STEVE: Are you free for dinner tonight?

JAMES: Yeah

STEVE: Want to come over? I’ve got Star Trek queued up and I’m cooking

JAMES: No boiled stuff

STEVE: Ha ha fuck you. I’m putting your steak back in the fridge

STEVE: So are you coming or what?

2.42pm

JAMES: Yeah. Thanks. Want me to bring anything?

2.57pm

STEVE: Maybe beer? I’m all out. See you 7?

JAMES: Okay 7 and beer

___

James shows up at 7pm with a six-pack of imported beer. “I have no fucking idea what these taste like.” He shoves the pack into Steve’s hands. “It’s even worse than choosing yogurt.”

He laughs and relieves James of the bottles. The label has far too many vowels on it, and he makes a guess at the pronunciation based on the German he’d picked up during the war. He leaves two on the counter since they’re cold enough to drink, puts the rest in the fridge and goes back to the stove where he’s got the pan heating up. James wanders over and twists the caps off the bottles with his metal hand.

“Neat trick.”

“It has its uses.” James looks around the kitchen. “Anything I can do?”

“You can toss the salad.” He puts the first piece of steak into the frying pan and salts it liberally. “See? Nothing boiled. I do know how to cook.”

“It’s salad, Steve. Good job with the washing.”

“You said ‘well done’ on your steak, right?”

James quirks an eyebrow. “That’s low, Steve, holding a man’s meat hostage.” He starts tossing the salad.

Steve snickers at the innuendo. He finishes frying up the steaks and they sit down at the table. They don’t talk much while they eat, but the silence is a comfortable one, easy and relaxed. After they finish eating and clearing up, they carry their beers over to the couch and Steve switches on the tv.

James leans back and looks at Steve from under his lashes while he takes a drink from his bottle. “You wanna tell me what's going on, Steve?”

“What do you mean?” He picks at the label on his bottle, avoiding James’s eyes.

“We’ve barely spoken in months, and now you’re texting me and inviting me over for dinner? Are you _sure_ Cho gave you the all clear?”

He takes a steadying breath and forces himself to look at James. “Why’d you leave that day?” The ‘me’ goes unsaid. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

It’s James’s turn to look away. “You got your memories back. I knew you’d be fine on your own.”

A small, pained breath escapes him.

James swears softly. “It’s not—” he stops, jaw working. “I’m not the one you want, Steve. I’ll never be that guy you used to know.”

“Not want—?” He can hardly speak for the pain in his chest. “You’re my best friend, James. When you moved out, it was like—”

Fuck. He takes a few deep breaths. He can’t put this on James.

“I just... I really missed you.”

“I could feel you, you know,” James says, his voice soft and sad. “Watching and waiting and checking to see how I reacted to everything. I thought you were waiting for… him... the old me... to come back.”

Christ. How could he have been so stupid. “Is that why you asked me to call you James?”

“Yeah,” James breathes out on a sigh. “I wanted you to see _me._ I couldn’t be that Bucky for you, I’d fought too long and too hard to find myself. But seeing me was hurting you, and I didn’t want that.” He shrugs. “So I left.”

He’d fucked up so bad. “I did do that,” he says. “You’re right. And I’m so sorry I made you feel that way. But it wasn’t because I was waiting for you to be the old you again, I swear. I didn’t expect you to be the same, not after—Hell, I’m not the same either. But I thought that if you could smile again, and laugh again, that it’d mean you were okay. Then… then maybe I could be okay, too. Because I let you fall. I dragged you back into the war and then I let you fall.”

His throat aches with unshed tears. “I didn’t even go back for you. I couldn’t—I gave up. And when you came back, I failed you again, too busy worrying about myself that I didn’t even see what I was doing to you.” He drops to his knees and buries his face in James’s lap. “I’m so sorry, James.” His chest heaves as he tries to not to cry.

“Steve,” James breathes, his voice full of helpless affection as he strokes a gentle hand over Steve’s head. “You’ve gotta stop blaming yourself for everything. I know things haven’t been easy for you too. You’re pretty messed up, Steve, even I can see that. And you always make it so hard for anyone to help you.”

Steve wraps his arms around James’s legs, anchoring himself. He’d failed James so badly, and still James had his back, so doesn’t matter whether James wants him or not, he’ll always belong to James.

“And as for the other thing,” James says, “there wasn’t anything more you could’ve done. It was my choice to fight, my choice to keep things from you. There was no way you could’ve known I’d survive that fall. Everything that happened after... well, life’s just fucked up like that. I don’t blame you. I never blamed you. I remember that much.”

James combs his fingers through Steve’s hair, his touch soothing and kind. And this, after so long, feels like absolution. He’ll never stop feeling guilty, but the load is lighter now and easier to bear. His breath leaves him on a shuddering sigh.

“Always so dramatic, Steve.” James urges him to his feet. “Get up here.” His tone is a complex blend of resigned, and amused, and tender. In this, James hasn’t changed. Still practical and ready to give him a gentle kick in the pants whenever he needs it.

James pulls him up onto the couch and arranges them so he’s sitting with his back to James’s front. Strong arms wrap around his waist and a sharp chin comes to rest on his shoulder. He kind of wants to cry again; the last time they’d sat like this had been during the war, when they’d take turns keeping each other warm while on patrol. James always insisted on taking his turn even though Steve wanted to be the one to keep James warm always.

“Since we’re being honest with each other,” James says, “no, don't turn around, I can’t do this if you look at me. I guess—well, I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while now, but I kept putting it off because I’m a fucking coward,” he says. “Hydra scrambled my mind to shit, and there’s a lot I don't remember of what they did to me, and what I did for them. But here’s the thing… I’m _glad_ I don’t remember, Steve, even if it means I lost a lot of our past. Because what I do remember—” he cuts himself off, voice strained.

Steve aches at the thought of everything James had gone through, and the rage he’d carried in his heart ever since he’d realized what had been done to James flares up. But this isn’t about him. He tamps down his anger and threads their fingers together, pulling James’s arms tighter around himself. Some of the tension leaves James’s body as he accepts the offered comfort.

“I’m doing what I can to honor the lives I took, and to atone. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be at peace with myself, or if I even deserve to be, but I’m done trying to get back everything they took from me. So I’m sorry too, Steve.”

“You have _nothing_ to apologize for,” Steve says. “Even if you’d never gotten any of your memories back, it wouldn’t change how I feel about you. You’re still the best person I know. I’ll always want to be by your side, James.” His heart pounds as he stands at the edge of a precipice and prepares to step off. “I love you.”

James’s arms tighten around him. “I love you too, Stevie. A guy couldn’t ask for a better friend than you.”

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or both. “I don’t mean just as a friend, James.” He screws his courage up to the sticking point and tries again. “I _love_ you.”

James is silent for so long that Steve turns around to look at him. He’s staring at Steve, eyes wide with shock.

“How long, Steve?” he asks, in a voice that’s barely a whisper.

Steve gives a rueful smile. “As long as I can remember, as long as I’ve known what it means to want someone.” He shrugs. “Most of my life, basically.”

“But… Carter…?”

An old sadness wells up inside him at the thought of Peggy. He faces forward and leans back against James, his turn to be comforted when James wraps his arms around him.

“I knew you didn’t feel the same way about me, so when I met her, I guess I... jumped with both feet. At first that's what it was. She was the first woman that ever really saw me. But then, I got to know her better and she was just—it was easy to love her.”

“I remember her some,” James says quietly. “She was something else.”

“I missed my chance with Peggy, and a part of me will always wonder what could have been. I don’t want to waste any more chances, James. I don’t want another ‘what if’. Not when it comes to you.”

James presses his face into the curve of Steve’s neck. “Steve,” he murmurs, “I never knew.” There’s regret in his voice, and sorrow.

“You weren’t supposed to know. I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me, or guilty that there was something you couldn’t give me. But honestly, I was just scared you’d tell me to leave.” In fact, he’d been terrified, and he’d spent the years when he’d lived with the Barnes family pathetically grateful that there’d always been one of them around so he was rarely alone with James. “I thought that’s why you moved out after you came back, because I couldn’t hide it well enough, because I wanted too much.”

“We’re a couple of idiots, you know? Turns out we were both too good at hiding.”

Steve turns around and searches James’s eyes, almost too scared to hope.

“I love you too, Steve.” James cups a hand around Steve’s cheek. “Ever since you were a scrawny little punk so ready to fight the whole world. That’s one thing I never forgot. And even if I couldn’t remember any of it, I know I’d have fallen for you all over again after I came back.”

“Even when you thought...?”

“Even then. You’re a hard man not to love, Steve.”

“Goddamit, James,” he chokes out through a throat tight with emotion, feeling broken open and put back anew. He lurches off the couch and pulls James up into a hug. James’s arms come up around him, and they hold on to each other, so tight it’s almost hard to breath, their first real hug since James had come back.

He pulls back. “Oh god, James.” Something had always bothered him about that night in the bar when Peggy had walked in looking like a million dollars in that red dress of hers. Something about James. “Peggy—If I’d known, I’d never have—”

“Hey, hey.” James cups the back of Steve’s neck. “Don’t go looking for something else to blame yourself for. Like I said, we’re a couple of idiots. And anyway, what future would there have been for us? You wanted to make a difference, Steve. I’d just have gotten you thrown into jail.”  

“I would’ve—”

“Come on, Steve,” James says. “Can’t change the past. You’ve got me now, right?”

“I do, don’t I?” he says. A smile spreads over his face. He can have this... a future with James.

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

That was—a good fucking question. He threads his fingers through James’s hair. “Can I kiss you?”

James smiles, soft and a little shy. “Yeah, you can.”

“I’m not—I haven’t done this a lot of times, so, I don’t really know what I’m doing. Just… don’t get your hopes up, okay?”

“You got nothing to worry about, pal.” James taps his temple. “Not a single kiss left in here, so you’re gonna be setting the bar.”

“Okay.” He blows out a breath. “No pressure then.”

For all that, it’s James who pulls him down into a kiss. It’s soft, and sweet, a gentle exploration. He loses himself in the feel of it, the warm press of James’s body against his own, the rasp of stubble against his skin, the wet heat of lips and tongue, the light nip of teeth. He flushes hot all over, and they’re both breathing fast when they part.

“I thought you said you’d forgotten everything,” Steve says.

“Muscle memory, I guess,” James says. He looks as dazed as Steve feels, but he still manages to sound smug. “You ever kissed a guy before?”

Steve shakes his head and cups James’s face in his hand, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone. “You’re my first, too.”

James presses a hand over his. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we take it slow?”

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah we can. I want that, too.” Desire thrums under his skin, but he wants to take the time to get to know James again, to properly woo him, to reassure him that he’s loved as he is now. “Have dinner with me tomorrow?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“I am,” Steve says.

“About fucking time.”

He laughs. “And they said romance is dead,” he says. “I’ll come pick you up.”

“Your bike only seats one, Steve.”

He ducks his head, feeling shy. “That’s the old one. The new one seats two.”


	4. EPILOGUE

Dawn light is just starting to sift through the curtains when he wakes. He turns to check the other side of the bed, still half afraid that the past few months have been a dream. But no, James is there, lying face down with his back to Steve.

It’d taken them a while to get here. They’d taken it slow, like they'd both wanted, spending most of their time together and discovering that they were still easy in each other’s company despite the years and experiences that separated them.

It had been a month before they’d taken the final step of sleeping together. They’d spent that month researching all the ways two men could pleasure each other. There were lots of heated kisses, and hand jobs that graduated to blow jobs that graduated to frotting.

Not even a month after that, Steve had moved into James’s apartment. That was when he’d realized how lonely he’d been, living on his own ever since he’d come out of the ice. They slipped into a quiet domesticity that had Steve smiling at the end of every day, especially when he saw that James smiled more easily too.

Their friends had celebrated by inviting themselves over for dinner, and gifted them with a basket full of sex toys that had left them both speechless, but also very intrigued.

Steve shifts over and lays himself half on top of James. He wraps his arm around James’s waist and tucks his face into the base of James’s neck, brushing a kiss against sleep-warm skin.

James groans. “Steve,” he says, breathless, “you fucking _elephant_.”

Steve snickers. “Somebody said I needed to eat more.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” James says. “It’s ass o’clock in the morning.”

“The sun’s up, James.”

“ _You’re_ up, you mean,” James grumbles. “Don’t think I can’t feel that.” He buries his head in his pillow but doesn’t move away.

Steve smiles, heart light with happiness. It’s going to be a good morning indeed.


End file.
